Silence and dancing
is what it comes down to
in the end for them,
as they struggle from wheelchair to bed,
knowing nothing changes,
that the poor, who are themselves,
will become even poorer
and the fatuous voices on the screen
will go on gabbling about another
war they cannot do without.
What defense against this
except silence and dancing,
the memory of dancing -
O, but they danced, did they ever;
she danced like a devil, she'll tell you,
recalling a dress the color of sunrise,
hair fluffed to sea-foam,
some man's some boy's
damp hand on her back
under the music's sweet, hot assault
and wildness erupting inside her
like a suppressed language,
insisting on speaking itself
through her eloquent body,
a far cry
from the well-groomed words on her lips.
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by Lisel Mueller
